CtrlAltDel
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: Brendan finds an old memory among the security tapes.


_Ok, so I got this feedback which said I should write sex tape fic. So I did. A bit rushed, and a bit rubbish, but hey.  
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**Ctrl – Alt - Del**

He didn't trust Joel. He knew he didn't trust him the second Joel had asked for the combination to the safe. Brendan had hesitated, for half a second, and then given it to him. He couldn't have Joel knowing he didn't trust him, that would defeat the whole point. He wanted the lad onside. But twenty minutes later, he'd gone into the office and changed it. No, there was no way he was letting Joel get anywhere near the secrets of the Brady empire, or the cash. The stuff that made this place tick, that made him tick, was staying securely locked away from prying eyes and hands. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

He had no idea why he'd taken him on, really, Joel. He had been bored, he guessed. There had been a gap in his life that needed filling. He needed a project. Cheryl had been amazed, and Mitzeee. Joel had only ever been an irritant, coming back where he wasn't wanted, getting up in his face about the club. His first instinct had been to get rid of him. But then one night, Joel had laid into some no doubt wholly deserving student in the bar with his fists, and the next day, viewing back the security tape, Brendan had had a change of heart. There was potential there, he thought.

The problem with the previous barman was that he had always been so fucking moral. He'd hated the drugs, the cheating at cards, the cutting of corners, the sneaking around, though it had been interesting tempting him. But on the whole, he'd always been so flipping upright, going on about his two kids, and wanting to be proud, nothing dodgy, yada yada, so Brendan had done his best to keep him away from the darker stuff, to protect him from it. But Joel … he looked out at Joel, moving about behind the bar, a bit awkward, clumsy, undisciplined. Somehow he didn't think Joel would be too bothered about any of that. He was a bit of rough, basically, from the wrong side of the Glasgow tracks. And he was eighteen, he thought with his dick, his tongue hanging out after each and every even halfway decent girl he saw. It wasn't specially pretty to watch. But it was all a lot less complicated. In so many ways.

He decided to spend a quiet half hour reviewing the security disks for the office. Just to be on the safe side. Not that he had any desire to stumble on video evidence of Joel getting his puppyish rear end away with one of the barmaids, the thought made him slightly nauseous, but if he'd had his hands anywhere else, then Brendan needed to know.

The camera in the office wasn't often used. He had no intention of making the cops' life easy by recording himself sat there making highly indictable phone calls, or anything else he might get up to. The office was his place, his private place, where he went to think. But he'd got into the habit of switching it on in Foxy's time, whenever he left the place, or whenever the club was heaving with punters and someone might fancy seeing what they could nick. It was surprising what you could capture on film.

He dug into his pocket for his keys. Only he had the keys to this filing cabinet now, the one where they kept things that needed to stay hidden. Something else he'd taken control of when Daddy Fox had taken his trip to the Big House, an event he still remembered with bleak thin-lipped satisfaction. He had hated Warren, with a black passion. But the bastard had also filled a gap, in his way. Brendan had buzzed off taking him on, getting one over on him, in a way he couldn't completely explain. Taking on Joel sure was no substitute for that, he thought. It was more of a consolation prize really. Call it compensation.

He stuck the key into the lock of the cabinet, turned it, and pulled out the drawer, his hand dipping into the hanging files for the disks. Not many of them. They only kept about two weeks worth, then erased and reused them. As he wandered over to the desk, he flicked through the pile of them, idly. They had dates written on the covers, then scribbled out and rewritten. His own writing. Then he stopped. The one at the bottom was different. There was just one date, clearly written. And then, DO NOT ERASE.

He sat down, slowly, turning the disk over in his hand, his thumb rubbing against the writing. He knew exactly what was on it. Exactly.

It had been a surprise, to say the least, when he stumbled on it the first time. Changing the disks, checking the old one, quickly, on fast forward. And then stopping. Running a hand over his face. He hadn't even known the camera had been on. He felt a flash of heat that expanded out through his whole body. Thank Christ no one had reviewed it but him. And then he had walked to the door, slowly, locked himself in, and watched it, in the dark, through narrowed, appreciative eyes. It was a new experience.

Had watched it several times since then. Not for a while, though. He'd watched it a lot last summer, when he'd been in the middle of one of those really shitty droughts when he'd only had one shag in months, some guy who moved into the flat and lasted one night. Apart from that, he'd felt like his balls were exploding most of the time. And watching what was on that video had helped. Being reminded, in the best possible way, that it had been his name being screamed once.

Things were different now, though. He had no problem getting his rocks off. None whatsoever. Pretty much every time he got a night off, and definitely when he had a weekend, he would pack a bag, drive to a pick-up joint, and check out the field for suitable talent. For guys with a particular look, ideally, though he was surprisingly unfussy these days. And for guys who looked at him a particular way. Compliant, lustful. But with no complications. No vulnerabilities. Preferably, anyway. He would home in, buy them the requisite drink, then take them somewhere anonymous, and shag them senseless. Generally, he liked to think a pretty good time was had by all.

He rarely went with the same guy more than once. Sometimes, if they seemed relaxed about it, maybe he'd see them again. He'd built up a nice little network of amenable contacts. It saved the legwork at the beginning if you could just cut to the chase. But knowing he was only going to be shagging them once, twice, was surprisingly liberating. You just let your dick do the talking. It was satisfying, seeing how far they wanted to go, and they mostly wanted everything he could give them. Yeah, he liked having them pushed face down on the bed while he pounded in and out, listened to the muffled shouts of satisfied desire, or watched them lie on their backs, jerking themselves off with their legs draped over the crook of his elbows, his pelvis rocking backwards and forwards into theirs, over and over until forgetfulness just came and grabbed him. It was all very pleasurable, and he felt great.

And in the morning, he packed and left. Those were the terms. Generally, he kept it separate from the rest of his life. There was no way he was taking any of them home. But then there was no way he was being taken home to meet anyone else's mother either. Or their wife and kids, as it happens, which was surprisingly often the case.

In a lot of ways, it was like the good old days. Quick, safe, exciting, anonymous. Before he'd let himself get dragged down by feelings. Relationships, that fucking godawful word. It had ended in fucking disaster, every time. Vinnie, who'd ended up dead. Macca, who'd ended up wrecking his marriage. And … well, it was just always a disaster. Simpler now. The only difference was, he didn't need to lie to Cheryl, or anyone else, about what he was doing.

So he didn't need to watch that disc any more. He should really erase it, he thought, holding it up between his fingers. But there was no harm in watching it, one more time, before he did. He slotted the disk into the computer, and opened the file.

He knew what he was going to see. It was burned into his brain, he knew, every last moment. He pressed Start. An image appeared.

Himself, Brendan, walking into the office and closing the door, leaning back against it. It was strange, watching himself like this. Unguarded. He usually kept his feelings, if he had any, under control. But he hadn't really understood until he saw it for himself how twitchy, distracted he could be. He watched himself move around the office, sitting behind the desk with his feet up at one point, his head resting on his hand, his foot tapping. And then standing beside the filing cabinet, drumming his fingers. And then idly picking up a file, opening it. Staring at it, a frown on his face. He could remember exactly what he'd been thinking. He'd been wondering why the figures for this week's takings had never seemed less interesting. Why they seemed to die on the page in front of his eyes, like they were written in hieroglyphics or something. Why his mind just seemed so fucking full of something else, a gap, an absence, something close that he couldn't put his hand on. Or someone.

And then the door of the office opened, and in came another figure. Closed the door behind them, determined. And walked right over to him, lifting up his face.

Stephen.

It was almost a physical shock to see him now. That unmistakeable tilt of his chin. The line of his nose. The curve of his brows. He had known it all so well it was like they were part of him. It almost hurt.

Brendan had barely seen Stephen for months. Not since … well not since he'd sent Declan away. And he'd realised he couldn't trust Stephen either anymore. He had hit him. It had been ugly, tired. Brendan was relieved that he didn't have to feel that way anymore. He didn't have to feel anything much at all. It was easier.

He'd seen him a few times, in the distance, going into Price Slice or that new coffee shop round the corner. It was a small place, after all. Sometimes with Amy and the kids. But mainly, he seemed to be hanging with Doug now, for some reason. Someone else who Brendan had once had under his thumb, but who seemed to have managed to escape.

Even Cheryl barely mentioned Stephen now. Once, recently, she'd gone in for some business competition and come second, and she'd mentioned in her excitement that Ste and Doug had been there as well, before she'd realised what she'd said and bitten her lip. But he'd heard her. He'd kept his thoughts to himself but the idea was ridiculous to him. Stephen, running a business? Might as well invest your money on a three-legged horse in the Derby. Unless he'd changed, somehow. He sure as hell looked different these days. Sharper, smarter.

But the Stephen on the screen was the old Stephen. The one he'd known, like the lines on his own hand. In his black Chez Chez T shirt, hoodie and trousers. His hair still flopped down over his forehead, the way Brendan had liked it, though actually, he didn't look bad now.

Brendan watched himself, unable to meet the challenge of the gaze coming from Stephen's upturned face. Words, exchanged. And then Stephen almost laughed, and started to turn away, and he saw his own hand come out and grab his arm, spinning him back round to face him. The look on Stephen's face, for a moment, was fear. It made him wince to see it. It had been one of the currencies between them that, fear. Stephen always almost afraid of what he might be provoking. And he wondered now, as he watched himself on the screen, trying to resist, and spectacularly failing, if he'd also been afraid. At what Stephen provoked in him. At the way he made him feel. It had been like staring over a cliff.

He watched himself and Stephen standing there together, deadlocked. And then saw himself reach out and pull Stephen into a kiss, his hand on the back of his neck. His fingers almost twitched on the desk now, remembering the feel of it under his hand. The light hair, soft. He watched Stephen's hand come to his hip, pulling him in so they were touching, groin-to-groin. It had always been his most effective way of pulling Brendan back to him, because it was where he most wanted to be.

What happened next was … interesting. He watched himself walk Stephen fast, backwards, towards the office door, his back landing there with an impact, and then kiss him again, hard, one hand on his jawline, the other reaching for the key in the door, fumbling with it, turning it, then pulling it out and throwing it somewhere randomly as Stephen pushed him off and they started to ricochet towards another wall.

It was delicious, watching his hands bury in Stephen's hair, Stephen's hands bury in his, then moving down and brushing, rubbing over his groin, and himself laughing, and more kissing, and then starting to undress. Stephen's hoodie and polo first, one pushed off his shoulders and flung aside, the other coming up over his head, revealing the wheatfields of his back, his smooth shoulder blades, mussing his hair, while Stephen's hands tugged at the buttons of Brendan's shirt. Then them both unfastening each other's belts, only stopping to take another kiss, open mouthed, like trying to eat and breathe at the same time, because it's just life, y'know, and you want to cram as much into yourself as you can, take as much as you can.

He watched his own hands pawing at Stephen's buttocks through his trousers, and then turning him again, fast, so that his bare shoulders hit the wall, and him shrugging off his own unbuttoned shirt, tossing it onto the floor, and then Stephen's hands, clawing this time at the muscles of his back as he kissed him again, pressing him against the wall of the office. Their faces started to look blurred together by passion, mouths looking for each other, over and over, while their hands found their way into each other's pants, and by the look of it, some serious heat started to build. It almost shocked him, now, how abandoned he looked, his mouth looking for Stephen's neck, his Adam's apple, as Stephen threw his head back to let him, his features soft with wanting him. And then they got down to business. He watched his hands, practiced, push off Stephen's trousers and boxers, together, half way down his legs, until he kicked his way out of them, leaving him naked except for a pair of dark socks. It was hard to see much, because Brendan's own body was between Stephen and the camera, but his skin still flashed and shone, a glimpse of shoulder, arm, chest, neck, legs. And Stephen was pushing his own trousers, boxers, down over his arse, excited, clutching at him. Brendan saw he had taken something from his own pocket, something small and square, and ripped it open with his teeth, and there was some rummaging between his and Stephen's bodies, Stephen looking down to watch, his lip held between his teeth. And then Brendan watched himself look at Stephen, hard. Back him flush against the wall. Bend down slightly, grip Stephen around the thighs, which parted, eager and wide to wrap round his body, and letting the muscles of his back take the strain, lifted him up. For a moment, their bodies seemed to settle into each other, Stephen's arms gripping around his neck, their mouths finding each other, nuzzling for a second. And then Stephen's mouth seemed to fall open in a big O, and the muscles of his own buttocks seemed to tense, and then they seemed to have found each other.

The rest was rhythmic, exploratory stuff. Slow at first. Long, slow, thrusts into Stephen's body that he could still feel now, the delicious tightness, their foreheads pressed together, Stephen's hands in his hair, their mouths meeting in long, slack kisses. And then gradually, gradually, getting harder and faster, his grip adjusting on Stephen's thighs, hoiking him back up when he seemed to be slipping, making him cry out, it looked like. He could remember it, Stephen's cry. He could remember the sound of it, the reverberation, high and clear, every time his buttocks thrust forwards, and he saw the look on Stephen's face now over his shoulder as he hung on for dear life, a look he'd never seen at the time, but with his mouth open.

_Oh … oh fuck … oh fuck … fuck … oh … oh … oh … Brendan … Bren … fuck … _

It had been a bloody good job the music from the club had been thumping outside.

Yeah it had been his name in Stephen's mouth back then. Stephen, crying out for Brendan to fuck him. And it had helped him, later, when he was with that nobody, that Noah, that useless Muscle Mary who had been so easy to tempt away, and had since been dispatched to Newcastle, to watch that and know that no one fucked Stephen like he did, and never would.

Eventually, it became a frenzy of pumping and thrusting and clutching. He wasn't so interested in the bouncing of his own taut pale arse, back and forth, but in the response it seemed to get from Stephen, his socked feet crossed in the small of Brendan's back, his lips parted, one hand still clinging round Brendan's neck while the other seemed to grope for his own groin, and then he remembered getting towards a different cry, which had filled his ears.

_Oh yes … yeah … yeah … yeah … yes … oh god … oh god Brendan … yes … yes … oh … ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh …._

His own buttocks, clenching hard now, a few more long, dark, deep thrusts, into that darkness, muscles trembling, letting himself go.

They seemed to be frozen together in that moment for what seemed like forever.

And then slowly, slowly, he watched as the grip of Stephen's arm around his neck slackened, his head leaning back against the wall, gasping in deep breaths. His own mouth seemed to be buried again in Stephen's neck. And then a slow separating of their hips, careful, Brendan retrieving something and throwing it aside into a bin with one hand. And then relaxing his grip, setting Stephen back down so his feet hit the floor. And them looking at each other, breathless, and then sort of smiling, almost laughing, and Stephen pulling him into another kiss.

He was a shag and run merchant, he knew this. He used people for what he could get from them, and left. But he had to sit and watch now as he and Stephen stayed pressed against that wall, for another minute, as if their bodies were glued together, Stephen's hand on the back of his neck, the other in the small of his back, as they came down together, laughing like a couple of lovers.

Even when he watched himself try to snap back into normality, watched himself pull away, reluctant, pull up his trousers and rebuckle, urge Stephen to get dressed, his movements looked softened, blurred, still connected to person who was looking back at him with sly, lustful satisfaction, stretching out his chest and rubbing the shoulder muscles that had been repeatedly hammered against the wall.

He watched as Stephen groped for his boxers on the floor, and pulled them back on, a pout on his face. But even then, he seemed unwilling to let go. He watched Stephen come over to him. Look into his face, as he tried to shrug his shirt back on. He remembered it. Voices, low.

"Don't go."

"Look, I have ter, I have ter."

A shake of his head, a smile, on his lips, ducking in closer.

"Don't …"

And then Stephen, kissing him, warm and open and teasing and wanting him again, right then. And being unable to resist. Groaning, at his own inability to resist. But he was like the ripest apple on the tree, Stephen, the one with the spell cast on it. The one you couldn't stop wanting. That was the amazing thing, right there. Watching himself give into it, again, letting Stephen's hands slide off his shirt again. And then watching the way that Stephen's hands came up to hold him, cupping his jaw and guiding him back into a kiss he found it impossible to break away from.

And then the door opening, and two women standing there.

He remembered that feeling, sure enough. Couldn't really remember what they'd said. Not much, he didn't think. He watched the blonde woman back out, her face horrified, and run off. The brunette woman stay a second longer, a sly pout on her face, a quick shake of her head and a tut, sarcastic, knowing, and then follow.

After that, just two men, pulling on their clothes. Hardly able to look at each other. Stephen, distressed, saying stuff that he couldn't recall, about what he'd done to her, about how she'd never forgive him. Bit late now, he remembered thinking. The more Stephen panicked, the more surprisingly calm he'd felt. It's not as if either of them hadn't known that he and Stephen had had a thing. On the video, he watched himself finish dressing. Stephen, gesticulating. Him, trying to put his hands on Stephen's shoulders, to calm him down. But eventually, Stephen shrugging him off, running out.

Leaving him standing there, alone.

As his pulse returned to normal, and his hard-on well-and truly subsided, Brendan paused the playback. Not much happened after that, anyway, he knew that from memory. A tall man with a moustache shrugged on his jacket. Looked at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair. Picked up his keys from the floor. Stood for a moment, lost in thought. Looked at the wall, where they'd just been together. Then seemed to sniff, square his shoulders, and walk out of the door. He didn't need to see that again.

So he was left staring at an image of himself, freezeframed, in that office, alone.

Brendan passed a hand over his eyes. He hadn't expected it to affect him like that, watching it again. No, not like _that_, it was shit hot, obviously, watching himself fuck Stephen. But like something was being stirred up, that had been dead and buried. He couldn't get out of his head the image of Stephen's hand on the back of his neck, his mouth buried in Stephen's shoulder. Them laughing a bit, when they got their breath back. Stephen coming for him, teasing, _don't go_, a shake of the head, a smile, and kissing him, and him letting it happen.

What struck Brendan now with full force, was how happy they had looked.

He picked up the case for the disk and looked at the date he'd written on it. 03/02/2011. It was over a year ago, he realised. A long time. Too long.

They had both moved on, long since. The whole thing had been a mistake, really, a blip in his life. He was well rid. He sat up. DO NOT ERASE, the case said. Well fuck that, he thought. It was time to reduce, reuse and recycle. He'd never been sentimental about sex.

He shut down the video and went to the file manager. Highlighted. Clicked Delete.

But nothing's that simple, is it? A message, on the screen.

_ 03022011 . mov is a read-only file. Are you sure you want to delete it? _

Yes and No were highlighted on the screen. He sighed, irritated, impatient, denied. Yes, he thought, frowning, yes I fucking am sure. I'm always sure. He moved his cursor to Yes and positioned it, ready.

Then paused.

He didn't know why. A memory. A touch. A shake of the head. A voice. _Don't go._

His index finger stroked the left mouse button, gently, without pressure. A familiar curve, in his hand.

Erase.

Yes?

No?

_Don't._

He closed his eyes. Cocked his head on one side.

And took a breath.


End file.
